The last time I saw Dan Zanes play, back before his reinvention
as troubadour to the swingset set, neither of us had quite
so much gray hair. Of course, I’m not going to complain—and
by evidence of Zanes’ impressive rock & roll mop, I’d
guess he wouldn’t either—because in comparison to many other
fellas in the audience at Saturday’s show, we’re both follicularly
blessed.

Way back in 1995, the modest crowd gathered at Bogie’s to
see Zanes perform songs from his brilliant solo LP Cool
Down Time were all safely on the stylish side of the comb-over
years, which calls into question what I recall as the curious
stiffness and reserve of that audience. We stood with arms
folded—except when pistoning Schaeffer tall boys down gullets
toward still-resilient livers—soaking in the swampy soul,
dancing only on the inside. Being cool had some fairly stringent
behavioral proscriptions: To quote the infallible Calvin (a
cartoon character graced with a slightly Zane-esque ’do himself),
“The world bores you when you’re cool.”

But when you have a kid, a transformation occurs: Suddenly
“cool,” the kind that translates as “stoicism that will, through
some optimistic magic, get you laid by the cute chick with
pigtails and a band of her own,” takes a distant second place
to the kind of cool as defined by progeny who think you are
the funniest person on the planet. Zanes, a dad himself, is
very obviously hip to this. Boredom is not an option. So,
dance, monkey, dance.

And on Saturday afternoon, that’s just what we did. We—me,
my daughter, her mom, some others I recognized from that much
earlier show, and a whole passel I didn’t—stormed the midget
pit at the Hart Theater to hokeypokey like our lives depended
on it.

Typically, the hokeypokey is not a dance that I associate
with rock & roll, and an argument could be made that the
rootsy-folksy, kitchen-social-style hootenanny that Zanes
and his band performed wasn’t, strictly speaking, rock &
roll. But it’s not an argument I’d listen to for very long,
because—really—who gives a damn? Zanes conjured distinct shades
of John Fogerty in his tremulous electric work, and he and
his band triggered thoughts of less-definable acts such as
Ed’s Redeeming Qualities in their easy, inclusive informality:
Bull fiddle, mandolin, acoustic guitar, drum kit, penny whistle,
accordion, spoons and—believe it or not—tap shoes were all
thrown into the mix.

The everything-but-the-kitchen-sink approach to both arrangement
and set list—which included both a rap version of “Old MacDonald”
and a brief a capella lament regarding a waning supply of
gin—was given a slogan of sorts when Zanes said, with palpable
sincerity, “There is a way into making music for everyone
in this room. And you see how much fun it is.”

And that it was: kids twisting or pogoing with their moms,
or clapping more-or-less rhythmically while perched on Dad’s
shoulders. We saw one ambitious little girl execute a convincing
time step during “Smile Smile Smile,” and my own almost-2-year-old
daughter proved herself to be a very precocious snapper-of-fingers
(if any bands are hiring, keep in mind that she must go night-night
by 9).

It was family fun of a true kind: It was an improvement on
lots of kiddie acts in that there was no pandering, no product
placement (Zanes even seemed sheepish, almost apologetic,
about mentioning his upcoming Sesame Street appearance),
no gross-out humor and no moralizing; and it was an improvement
on lots of club acts because there was no genre-zombie recitation
of cliché, nor any hipper-than-thou posing or preening (maybe
just because nobody at this particular show had to prove that
they could get laid).